You may say that Sarah might have gone to the study to ‘plead’ with the Master. Not a bit of it. That, too, is psychologically impossible for the woman. Certainly she would have seen the Master at a proper time and have made a great to-do about asking to see him first.
Now we have Number Two. A very different matter. Jeannette Bocquet. A Gallic young woman with apparently some looks and let us say 98 per cent, vigorous S. A. I submit that the person in the study could not have been Bocquet any more than it could have been any of the others. Bocquet had had her flutter with M’sieu. She admitted it. (I expect she was quite proud of it, and I think that, in that respect, her evidence was quite truthful except, of course, for the obvious lie about herself having terminated the intimacy.) You may say that Bocquet may have wanted to renew the fun and games with M’sieu, and that she may, looking deliberately provocative, have gone into the study knowing that the rest of the household was in bed. I say no. At her first entrance, almost before she had got within the door, Brunton would have sent her packing. He was waiting for Lamort; he had, in effect if not in fact, given a promise to his son that the Bocquet matter was closed for ever. I say, too, that Bocquet herself would not have done this. She is, as I see her, an intriguing, treacherous, clever, and passionate little piece. She might, it’s true, quite easily—out of the purely animal part of her mind—have conceived the idea of killing the man who had thrown her over. But that would have been much nearer in time to the throwing over. It would have been an act done in white-hot rage, and not even a discarded young Frenchwoman can remain in a white-hot rage for more than a month. It can’t be done.
Further, she is a shrewd girl, obviously. She is also by nature a spy. There was very little that went on in that house that she did not know. You saw that. If she did not actually know that Lamort was M’sieu’s latest, she must have guessed it. So that, even supposing her to have suddenly wished for a renewal of relations with M’sieu, she would have known that all attempts at this must wait until Lamort had gone. Personally, I don’t think she ever wanted to resume relations. She obviously liked her job, or she wouldn’t have stayed in it so long—there are plenty of vacancies for good ladies’ maids in London—and, liking her job, any attempts to renew relations with M’sieu would be, obviously, a bad step. M’sieu was finished. M’sieu would be angry. Although M’sieu would be unlikely to report directly to Madame, things might nevertheless go awkwardly for Jeannette.
And think of Jeannette—think of Jeannette’s evidence—what was it but a display of all-round venom shooting? Do you think if Jeannette had been the person in the study that night, had seen Mary Lamort come in, in the manner and clothes in which she did come—do you think that Jeannette could have sat in that witness chair and missed that chance! Impossible!
A field of three, and two scratched. Violet Burrage walks over. It was Violet Burrage. And it was because Violet Burrage was hidden in the study when Mary Lamort went there for the first time that Violet Burrage was able to see and so closely notice what Lamort was wearing.
Look at the plan of the study. You will see that the only place in which a human being could be hidden and hidden quickly is the curtained-off alcove of the bay window. (Remember that scuffle—Mary Lamort thought he had knocked over a chair—which Mary Lamort heard while she was opening the door! That was Violet going into hiding.) And from these curtains Violet could look out without being seen; look out and see Mary Lamort and how she was dressed, down to the very embroidery upon the front of her wrap and the big emerald pendant hung about her throat.
Proving that Violet is the right and proper equivalent to every one of those oddities of mine seems to have taken rather longer than I thought it would. But you will find that I have done it. What I have to do now is, first, to remind you what these oddities were, like this:
1. Violet Burrage had no apparent motive in a household full of motives.
2. Violet Burrage went out of her way to accuse Mary Lamort and in the same breath acquitted Mary Lamort.
3. Violet Burrage knew down to the smallest detail what Mary Lamort was wearing and yet could not (if her evidence at the inquest was correct) have seen this.
4. Violet Burrage, hidden in the study, was the cause of Mary Lamort being sent packing upon her first visit.
And then to rewrite and rearrange this table, like this:
1. Violet Burrage was in Maxwell Brunton’s study when Mary Lamort first came in. Violet Burrage was, therefore, the cause of Mary Lamort being sent away.
2. Because she was in the study and therefore (peering out from behind the curtains) could see, Violet Burrage knew what Lamort had on.
3. Violet Burrage, trying to incriminate Lamort, overlies and oversteps herself and makes a mistake which leads to Mary Lamort being at least temporarily cleared.
4. Violet Burrage had no apparent motive either for trying to incriminate Lamort or for killing Maxwell Brunton.
Look at that now, and you will see that No. 3, if properly handled, may eliminate No. 4; that is to say, that an analysis of Violet Burrage’s incriminatory clearance of Lamort may supply that lacking motive. Like this:
Violet Burrage did not, in fact, see Lamort at all going to or during that second visit of Lamort’s to the study. Burrage, as I have shown, was in the study during Lamort’s first visit, and she could not have stayed in the study or near it for more than a few minutes after Lamort’s first departure. Brunton (see later) would not have tolerated her presence for a moment longer than was necessary to let Lamort get back to her room. Either, therefore:
1. Brunton rid himself of Burrage’s presence,
or
2. Burrage killed Brunton.
In either event, Burrage does not—would not, could not—stay in the room. If Brunton is alive he throws her out, metaphorically or literally; if Brunton is dead, his deadness, and the fact that she is its cause, gets rid of her as quickly. If Brunton is alive, she can stay neither in nor near the study. If Brunton is dead, she can stay neither in nor near the study. Ergo: she was neither in nor near the study during Lamort’s second visit. Ergo: she is lying when she says she saw Lamort going toward that second visit. Now, why should she trouble to lie—when even to her (see later) distorted and diseased little mind, she must be perfectly safe from having Brunton’s death put down to her address? Why should she trouble, I say, to lie, to incriminate another woman when that lying, as well as incriminating the other woman, may draw attention to herself; may crack, by making her have to admit that she was not inside her room for the whole of the dangerous hours, that hitherto invulnerable shell of ‘obviously-nothing-to-do-with-it’ armour which has surrounded her? There can be only one answer—jealousy! And jealousy of a morbid and ingrowing kind; suppressed, soul-destroying jealousy which by reason of its suppression fattens on itself.
But what class of jealousy? Merely by reading the evidence, you will find—as I found long before I got the confirmation of that picture gallery you sent me—that Violet Burrage is, to say the least of it, entirely lacking in physical or mental charm; utterly devoid of genuine S. A., utterly devoid, even, of purely surface animal attraction. If she had not been devoid of these things—if she had not been one of those unfortunate creations which, although they are roughly made in the shape of a woman, cannot be considered by the complementary sex as anything more interesting than a clumsy, amateur-built robot—we should have heard of her during the inquest as a possible mistress for Brunton.
The coroner, when he found he was going to get no change out of a search for circumstantial evidence, very soundly began ‘chercher la femme inconnue.’ To every witness—or nearly every witness—he put the specific question: ‘If Maxwell Brunton were conducting an intrigue [sic] at the time immediately preceding his death with someone in the household, who would that someone most probably have been?’ He got, you will remember, no answer at all from Enid Brunton, Claire Bayford, and Peter Hargreaves; but he did get answers from Adrian Brunton and Jeannette Bocquet.
Adrian Brunton, knowing that at one time at least there had been fun and games with Bocquet, gave Bocquet. Bocquet, denying (I am sure, in this instance, truthfully, for reasons which I have given above) that the fun and games had ever been restarted, threw out on general principles a veiled hint of Lamort, for she could not—it was impossible for her to—either leave a question unanswered or avoid innuendo. But—and here’s my point at last!—she made no hint or suggestion concerning Violet Burrage. And why? Because, as a woman, Violet Burrage didn’t exist. Do you think it at all possible, that if there had been even the remotest likelihood of Brunton even resting a conscious eye momentarily upon Violet, that Bocquet would not have had something to say about Violet? You don’t. Of course you don’t! Violet was disregarded as a possibility, and quite rightly. It isn’t necessary, but if you like to, just have a look at Vi’s photograph, or, better still, go and look at Vi herself. No man—certainly no man of Brunton’s class and tastes—could possibly have desired her.
So that—(Yes, yes! I quite remember where I am. I am in the process of showing you how Violet Burrage’s attempt to incriminate Lamort gives us the motive for her killing of Brunton—have patience!) So that this jealousy of Violet’s toward Lamort could not have been as from one concubine to another. What, then, was its basis? To get the answer, we must work like this:
1. Violet was in the study on that night and was hidden by, or with the knowledge or consent of, Maxwell Brunton.
But,
2. Violet is completely undesirable, and Maxwell Brunton, knowing that Lamort was coming to the study, could not in any case have intended to permit Violet’s entry.
But,
3. The probability that it was a sex reason which led to this kitchenmaid being alone with that master in such a way, is so great as to become a certainty.
Therefore,
4. Since, toward Violet, Maxwell Brunton could have had no inclination whatsoever, the sex-governed impulse which led to Violet being in the study must have been Violet’s own.
Therefore again,
5. Violet’s jealousy of Lamort was based upon raging envy. Envy of beauty; envy of sex satisfaction; envy of that satisfaction being obtained from Maxwell Brunton.
So much for the reason of Violet’s jealousy of Lamort. Now—and this is easy—to get, from this, at Violet’s motive for killing Brunton. But we will, for tidiness, go through the ‘how’ before getting to the basic ‘why.’
There can be no question that this killing was absolutely unpremeditated. I don’t think that it could be called murder. If it ever became possible—which it never will, my poor policeman!—to bring Violet Burrage to trial for causing the death of Maxwell Brunton, the verdict—if it were not an acquittal—would be manslaughter. You cannot seriously suppose that Maxwell Brunton would sit quite still, having put himself into a nice easy position, while a repulsive-looking girl shoved a piece of rock through his right eye into his brain. If the killer had been a paramour, or a possible paramour of Brunton’s, such a thing might have been possible. (I mean that, beautifully at ease with the loved one, Brunton might have laid himself open to a deliberate blow. He might, for instance, have been sitting or lying back in a big chair with the woman wandering about the room, in which case she could have upped with the quartz and have pushed it through his eye from behind.) But not so Violet. Impossible for Violet. Brunton was a big and fit man. Violet is a little and unfit creature. If she had picked up the quartz and run at him with it, she would not have got anywhere near her object. Couldn’t have. Similarly, at no time while Violet was in the room would Brunton have sat down with his back to her. He would not have sat down, as a matter of fact, at all. He must have been too astonished. His one idea must have been to get out of this ludicrous and rather uncomfortable position as quickly as possible. He would remain standing, telling the girl not to be crazy, telling her to go. The only way, therefore, in which Violet could have killed him was by throwing—no doubt at very close range—the lump of mineral. And what does throwing imply? Sudden, blind impulse … I will tell you how it happened—how it must have happened—and during this telling the motive will at least begin to appear.
I will start right at the beginning. Maxwell Brunton, having in the afternoon made a date with Lamort, goes down to the drawing-room at about eleven o’clock, spreading the news that he is to be busy in his study for some time yet and that therefore he will say good-night now. He says good-night. He goes back to his study. Probably the only work he has to do is to keep calm while he is waiting for his visitor. Presently—at just about the time, probably, when he is beginning to be unable to sit still any longer—the door begins softly to open. Being neither a young nor an inexperienced lover, he does not run toward it. He stands looking nonchalant; but nevertheless he is quite suitably afire within. The door opens slowly, very slowly. The person who is opening it is trying—and reasonably—not to make any noise. And then, when the door is fully open and the opener is within the room, closing the door, he looks. He looks once. He looks twice. He shuts his eyes and opens them again. No, they are not playing him false …
Instead of the regal, entirely sophisticated and enticingly apparelled beauty of Mary Elizabeth Lamort, he sees—crazy though it all must seem—the squat, undersized, certainly hideously clothed (I wonder what she did wear, Lucas?) entirely sexless ugliness of his kitchenmaid. I should think he has to look three or four times before he even remembers her face. He says at last: ‘ What in the name of everything do you want?’ But he doesn’t shout. Even in his astonishment he is careful. He knows too well his own reputation. He knows too well what to expect if this extraordinary visitation is ever discovered. Who will believe—who—that he had nothing to do with it? It would be useless for him just to point to the girl and say, ‘Well, I ask you!’ Quite useless. It might work in another man’s case, but not in his. In his it would probably merely be set down to a diseased dimming of his appreciations … No! he must get rid of her swiftly; he must get rid of her quietly.
He waits for some explanation, and while he waits he thinks furiously. Not only has he got to get rid of her and get rid of her quietly, but also he has got to get rid of her before Mary comes, because Mary, too, knows his reputation. Mary might not believe, and Mary—even if she did believe, and, believing, were not disgusted—what would Mary feel if her visit (and did he not well know how she would be attired for that visit?) were known by this—this dreary little goblin, who must certainly be mad? … What can the goblin want? She seems to be trying to tell him …
A most painful business, Lucas, and not a very nice one. We will draw veils until the moment when Maxwell Brunton realises, with utter amazement, the reason for the girl’s presence. Because he is an extremely kindly man and an imaginative one, and also because of this necessity for silent speed, he is pleasant to her. Perhaps even fatherly. A sort of ‘There-there-you-run-away-and-don’t-be-a-silly-little-girl-but-for-Heaven’s-sake-run-away-without-making-any-noise’ sort of attitude. But it doesn’t work. It inflames the unfortunate creature. She, too, is making no noise, no unnecessary sound at all. She, too, wishes no interruption—but for a different reason. She is talking, talking; even perhaps trying to act … And then poor Brunton hears a sound—the noise of his door handle again. There is nothing for it. He thinks like lightning, picks the girl up bodily, takes three steps, and is at the curtained-off alcove of the bay window. He rams her behind the curtains and leaves her there and trusts to God that she will have the sense from every point of view to keep quiet. (The noise of the action is the sound which made Mary think he had ‘jumped up in a hurry.’)
He crosses the room to Mary. He is in a situation to tax even his ingenuity. He wants to explain to Mary, nicely so that she will not be offended, that it is not yet safe. He thinks of so many stories all at the same time that not one of them will come out. He succeeds in getting rid of Mary, but he also succeeds—and miserably knows it—in both hurting and angering her …
So soon as the doo
r shuts—softly, softly—behind her, he stands by his table. He says, bitterly, but still in that low voice: ‘Better come out now!’ He is at the side of the writing table away from the window and at the corner of the writing-table nearest the fireplace. There is a moment before his order is obeyed, and during that moment he sees that the curtains are just parted as if someone were holding them and looking through. He realises that they have probably been thus held, that an eye has been to the aperture, all the time. That makes him angry. He repeats the order more harshly. This time there is an answer to it. The curtains part, and out comes the tragic grotesqueness. And now! Now, she is no longer inflamed by the one devouring urge. Now she has, added to this insanity, the madness of wild, mind-storming envy. She has been looking at the lovely demi-goddess who has, and is to have, all that she herself wants—or thinks she wants—out of this terrible business of living. She went behind those curtains as a distraught, shivering girl. She comes out from behind those curtains as a berserk woman. Brunton is standing, as I told you. She walks straight forward. All she can see is the face of this man. It dances like a devil-Tantalus before those staring eyes of hers. She comes up against the table with a little shock. She finds that she cannot walk farther; there is something in the way. Still she stares at that face. Against her hand she finds that there is something cold and hard. She closes her fingers over it. It is heavy. Still she stares at that face … She lifts her right hand and arm. In the hand is the thing she had caught hold of. She draws back her arm. Suddenly, with a force and truth possible to her only by the supernormal state she is in, she flings the thing, with all her might, at the face …
The Maze Page 14
